Note: Sorry it took me so long to update this. I've been very busy. (And I hope you all enjoyed that onslaught of Tom Hiddleston videos that were released the other week.) Thank you all for reading and reviewing.
Perhaps if Sif had not been careless in her run-in with a scout group of dwarves on Nidavellir, then she would not have found out that the second prince of Asgard was not dead.
Maybe if she had been concentrating more on the dwarf behind her rather than the one in front of her would she have not gotten a dagger in her side. If Sif had not had that nightmare about Thor being strangled to death then she most likely wouldn't have wandered down into the armory to distract herself with a sword. But all that did happen and now Sif was here, standing in her bare feet on the cold stone floor of the armory with a sword in her hand, wondering how she had even gotten down here in the first place.
She only remembers fragments of the events that led up to her getting to the armory: stiches and too-bright golden lights as Eir healed the hole in the warrior's side; waking up screaming from a nightmare too real to say aloud; the soft light of candles as she walked through the hallways of Asgard, seemingly having forgotten her shoes; and finally the wooden door that led to the armory, standing tall and unguarded before her. Sif had immediately gone to find her sword that had been thrown carelessly on one of the wooden tables that sat in the front of the room. It was covered in dried blood; an ugly red staining the shining silver, and Sif had promptly cleaned it until it was replaced to all of its former glory.
The armory is dark and deserted, so maybe that's why Sif flinches when she hears a clang echo throughout the room. She hesitantly picks up her sword from where it is sitting alone on a wooden stand. Without making a sound, Sif curiously slinks through the maze of armor and metal, trying to find out who – what – made that sound. Breathing is out of the question when a whimper sounds from the corner to Sif's right. Her grip on the hilt of her sword tightens as she tenses, preparing herself for an attack. She lets one second pass, then another, and then-
When Sif reveals herself from her hiding place, she expects to find a child or perhaps a wounded animal, for only those two things are capable of making that sound (the short whimper that is filled with so much pain and sadness that it makes her heart ache). But instead, Sif finds the person that she least expects in front of her. She could recognize the black hair that curls around the collar of the black and green leather from anywhere; the too-long legs and arms; the unhealthily skinny torso that is curled into fetal position: it is Loki. Insane, intelligent, mischievous, dead Loki. It takes a few seconds for Sif to process what she was seeing: supposedly dead Loki curled up on the ground in fetal position, whimpers escaping his mouth every few seconds. She tries to breath but her lungs refuse to inflate.
(For the last time she had seen Loki, she had threatened to kill him.
And when she had heard of his death, she was silent because even the horrible Trickster who betrayed Thor and all of Asgard did not deserve to die so suddenly, so early-)
Loki's sudden gasp of air brings Sif back to reality, and she throws down her sword, dropping to her knees beside the prince. Her hands hover over his body, not exactly sure what to do. Before Sif can do anything, though, Loki stirs and suddenly sits up. It takes him a second to focus on the room around him, on her, and she can see his eyes widen in surprise as he realizes where he is and who is in front of him. But she also sees how his fingers brush over his chest and ribs as if trying to feel his heart and lungs; the parts of his body that keep him alive.
(There was a story she had heard once-)
Loki clenches his jaw and says, "Why are you here?"
"I might ask the same of you," Sif replies quietly.
Before either of them can say anything else, though, Loki suddenly tenses and Sif can see his pupils are blown wide even in the dark lighting. He hugs his knees to his chest and rests his forehead there. The only sound in the armory is Loki labored breathing; short, shaky gasps of air that are forced in and out of his lungs. When a sudden scream rips itself from Loki's throat, Sif decides to take matters into her own hands. She grabs one of his arms, throws it over her shoulder, and lifts him to his feet. His head hangs limp, and his eyes are fixed on the floor. He lets out a half-hearted groan of irritation, but Sif just ignores him. "I don't care if I have to drag you, Loki," she growls, "but you're coming with me."
...
Loki had come accustomed to many things during his rule as the King of Asgard, many of which were quite pleasant. For one thing, he could roam around the palace whenever he wanted to, looking like whomever he wanted to. He found rooms which he didn't even know existed, and he would spend hours upon hours just wandering the hallways, opening doorways concealed in the shadows. It surprised Loki to think that he had grown up here, in this palace full of secrets.
When he was not wandering the halls, Loki was sitting on the throne discussing battle strategies, peace treaties, and a great deal more regarding the Nine Realms. He did all of this, of course, disguised as Odin, for all of Asgard still thought him dead and none knew that the All-Father had once again fallen into Odin-sleep. Loki would often hear the servants whispering about how much better the Nine Realms were doing; about how different the All-Father was acting. "He has seemed to have gained much more charisma," they would say when they thought that Odin –Loki– out of earshot. Of course Loki had made sure to balance out his charisma with a firm and humble act, too, because he could not risk changing the King's character entirely.
But along with the good things that came with ruling there was always the bad things and more often than not, the bad things would out-way the good ones. Ruling was extremely stressful and Loki found himself growing more and more weary with each passing day. His constant use of magic for his disguise drained his energy until at the end of each day; he was exhausted even if he had only spoken to one or two people.
The fits had started shortly after he had begun ruling. At first they were short: a brief flashback of something from his childhood or of a battle during his more recent years. But as time passed, the fits slowly grew longer and more realistic.
Loki had not been able to sleep one night and was sitting on the throne, letting his mind wander when he had gotten a sudden pain in his chest. He had stiffened, thinking that the pain was just a breath that he had taken too sharply, but then another pain hit him, that time in his back. His suddenly felt as if his lungs were on fire, and he clawed at his armor and tunic, letting his façade of the All-Father drop. When he had ripped through his tunic, he was met with the site of a gaping hole in his chest: the hole where Kurse had driven the spear through him, all those days ago.
(And when that had happened, Loki had gasped and his heart screamed in protest as it was ripped apart.)
The veins that ran to his heart from the wound carried blood that was black instead of red causing disturbingly beautiful patterns to stick out on Loki's skin like dark thread on a white dress. Skin grey as storm clouds surrounded the hole, too tender and delicate to touch. But Loki dared to touch it and had to bite back a cry when some of the black blood smeared across his fingertips, for it burned like acid and fire.
Loki had blinked and he was no longer sitting on the throne, but was lying in Thor's arms. His breathing was rapid and his mouth was parted as he struggled to gather air into his lungs.
"You fool…you didn't listen," Thor was saying in a voice filled with so much pain and anger and sadness that Loki couldn't help but agree with him.
"I know...I'm a fool...I'm a fool." Loki gasped as a sudden gust of wind blew sand that stung his skin. He shook, but he could no longer tell if he was shaking because of the cold or because of the poison that was slowly making its way to his brain. You can heal yourself, you can heal yourself, Loki thought. You checked the poison on the blade, it was safe, it was safe, it was safe. But Loki continued to shake as fear ate away at his courage. What if his magic failed him when he needed it the most and left him to die?
"Stay with me, okay?"
"I'm sorry…I'm sorry." `
"Shh…Loki…I'll tell Father what you did here today," Thor said as he pulled Loki to his chest letting the dying man's head rest in his big hands. The God of Thunder's voice shook as well as his body (from fear or the cold Loki could not tell) and large tears fell from his eyes. Thor. Perfect, arrogant, naïve, warm-hearted Thor. He wore his heart on his sleeve and sooner or later he was going to regret it. As Loki gazed into his eyes now, he could see that they screamed at Loki to not die, to stay holding onto Thor's hand for forever if that was what it took for Loki to stay alive.
(It's ok, Loki, don't be scared. Here. Hold my hand. I'm here, I'm here. Don't cry-)
Loki shivered. But was it because he was scared or was it because he was so damn cold-
"I didn't do it for him," he said quietly, almost thoughtfully. (If he did not do it for Odin then who had he done it for? Loki found that he could not even answer this question himself.) He let his eyes close and heard Thor's anguished cry as he was pulled into darkness. Then there was nothing. Nothing but black and the soft hum of magic as it worked furiously to heal Loki's wounds and keep the poison from entering his heart and brain.
Loki had snapped back to reality with a strangled cry only to find himself laying on the marble steps that led up to the throne. Hot tears were falling down his cheeks and his knuckles were white because he was gripping the sharp edge of the last step so hard. After a few seconds of silence, Loki quickly gathered himself back together and climbed back into the throne. He would not attempt sleep for the rest of the night.
Loki found that the best way to handle these fits was to breathe deeply and hug himself. When he hugged himself he was able to feel his heart beat and his lungs inflate, reassuring him that he was still alive and ok and if he just stayed calm for a little while longer, then everything would be ok and there would be no more pain, no more fear.
The God had been bored sitting on the throne earlier that day, for he had been sitting there for hours and hours doing nothing but talking to peasants and ignorant lords about petty matters. He had been itching to move around, and the hole in his chest had been throbbing with a dull ache, reminding him that he had to be cautious with his movements or else he might cause another fit to fall upon him.
To try and distract himself from these thoughts, Loki had decided to take a walk. He had no certain destination, so he just let his feet take him everywhere. The air was hot and dry outside, a characteristic that Asgard possessed. It was, after all, the realm that seemed to be made out of pure gold, so it only seemed fit that the weather there was always warm and sunny during the summer or dark and snowy during the winter. Either way, Asgard was deceptively perfect in every way.
After wandering aimlessly through the village that sat below the palace, the flower-filled garden where he had looked towards the sky, let his disguise as Odin drop, and talked to Frigga who no doubt sat on a throne of clouds in Valhalla, and finally through the deserted corridors of the palace, Loki finds himself in the armory. The lighting is dim and the room is silent, filled only by the sound of Loki's breathing.
He walks through the rows of swords and shields that are set on large wooden stands, some freshly polished and glinting and others still stained with blood and dirt. When he finds the table where he keeps his knives, he sighs with relief. After his supposed death on Svartlfaheim, he was certain that Thor had gotten rid of his daggers or worse, given them to some other warrior for use. But here they are, clean, shining, and sharpened as if someone has just finished using them. No, Thor would never let anybody else touch them.
Loki reaches out to the hilt of one of the daggers and wraps his longs fingers around it. Its familiar weight in his hand feels so much better than the almost awkward feeling he always has when he's holding Gungnir. He spins around and flings the dagger at a wooden post on the other side of the room. The dagger flies and buries itself into the richly colored wood, and Loki can't help but smirk. He has still kept his knife-throwing skills even after not having touched one of his favored weapons in forever.
When Loki picks up another one on the daggers on the table, he realizes that his hand is shaking. He is suddenly aware of his rapid heartbeat, the roaring of blood in his ears. "Not again," he mutters. His knees buckle, and he falls onto the cold stone floor. He quickly wraps his arms around his legs, hugging himself tightly as he tries to fend off whatever violent memory that will replay in his mind. It doesn't work.
The torchlight that illuminates the armory is replaced by eerie blue lights that seem to be planted into the dusty surface of the barren moon that is suddenly under Loki's feet. The space that surrounds the moon is like a canvas that was painted black with only one yellow dot –one single star– to banish the darkness.
Loki's face is pressed into the dust of the moon, and he is left staring at the grotesque feet of them –the monsters that had kept him, had tortured him for so long. He thought that he had ridden himself of them when he had been thrown into a prison cell in Asgard, but the Chitauri seem to torture him still, plaguing his nightmares. There is puncture wound in his lungs, his heart, and the hole, that damned hole, in his chest. With each beat of his heart, a wave of fresh blood pours from his wounds and makes the dust under him turn red and causes it to clump together.
Chains that stick out of the ground hold onto his wrists, disabling him from getting up. Loki moves his arm in a fruitless attempt to pull at the leaden chains, but his forearm is promptly stepped on and with a sickening crack, the bone snaps in half. Loki yelps in pain despite his best efforts at keeping quiet. The group of Chitauri guards who surround him grace him with their raspy laughter.
"The Silvertongue has found his voice," one spits. It grabs Loki's long and tangled hair and yanks his head back. Their prisoner lets out a hiss of pain, and the monster pulls Loki's mouth open. The guard dumps some foul tasting liquid into Loki's mouth and forces his to swallow it. The poison burns his throat as if he has just drunk acid, and he has the feeling of a fire in his stomach. He writhes on the ground. "Please, stop!" he gasps.
"Please, stop!" the guards mock. "Asgard's second prince is begging." They make it a point to say that he is Asgard's second prince. Always second.
There is a noise that sounds like the slapping of boots against stone, and it shatters Loki's eardrums. It changes into the echoing sound of a whip hitting flesh and hot pain bursts across Loki's back. The smell of blood is heavy in the air. "Stop," he groans. "Please, please just stop."
He feels the cool movement of air above his forearms and is pulled violently back into reality. He sits blot right up and blinks, his eyes trying to adjust to the sudden darkness. The ground underneath him is not made of dust, but of stone. There are no chains around his wrists, no whips being brought down against his back. His hand immediately flies up to the middle of his chest, to the hole that sits there, to his heart and lungs. He is alive. Loki relaxes a bit before he realized who is sitting in front of him. He hasn't seen her since he left for Svartlfaheim with Thor. Concern is plastered across her face in the form of a frown and hard eyes.
Damn, he thinks. Instead he says with a clenched jaw, "Why are you here?"
"I might ask the same of you," she replies quietly.
He opens his mouth to say something but the after effects of the fit roll over him and his muscles spasm. His knees immediately press against his chest, and he wraps his arms around his shins. Loki shuts his eyes tight, his breathing is too fast and the world is spinning and he is suffocating and gasping and the silence hurts his eardrums. He bites into the leather on his arm and screams because he thinks it will help his decaying lungs or the hole in his chest that burns so badly.
Loki feels Sif detach one of his arms from around his knees and throw it over her shoulder. He gives a half-hearted groan of protest as she pulls him to his feet. His head hangs limply on his neck and his eyes are half shut.
"I don't care if I have to drag you, Loki," she growls, "but you're coming with me." With that, Sif drags Loki out of the armory and into the hallway. He doesn't know where she's taking him, but what he does know is that he passes out before they get there.
…
Sif doesn't know when Loki fell unconscious, but she realizes it when she goes it open the door to his bedroom. The palace is deserted so no guards are anywhere near the room. But, then again, nobody is ever near Loki's old bedroom. As she extends her arm to push open the heavy golden doors, she feels Loki slump against her side. Ignoring the sharp press of his armor against her ribs, Sif shoves the door open and drags Loki to a seat right in front of the hearth. After making sure that he is seated and won't fall out of the chair, she walks back to the door, shuts and locks it, strides to hearth, and quickly starts a fire. At first there is nothing but a small spark that shows in the pile of wood but it soon turns into a roaring inferno of heat.
With the fire taken care of, Sif picks her way around the room, looking for a bowl and cloth. When she finds the supplies, she goes to the bathroom where a pool of water sits, sunk into the middle of the floor. Sif knows that Loki uses it for his potions. Knows that he wouldn't want her touching it. She doesn't care.
Loki is awake when Sif comes back out to the sitting room. She kneels down in front of him, dunks the cloth into the cool water, and wrings it out so that it is damp. Loki jerks his head back when she tries to press the cloth on his forehead. She glares at him and says, "Hold still."
There are a thousand questions racing around in her head. Sif wants to wrap Loki in her arms and just feel him breath so that she knows that he is really alive because she missed him, and she can't wait to tell Thor about this miracle. Thor. She suddenly has the urge to strangle Loki. He broke Thor so badly like a carless child and a toy. SIf can still remember the heart-wrenching sobs that made Thor shake like a dying animal. He had been so distraught because he blamed himself for Loki's death.
(I couldn't even bring his body back. I had to leave my little brother all alone on that barren planet. He's probably still there, rotting away and it's entirely my fault. He was so cold, and I couldn't even keep him warm.)
Sif looks at Loki's ashen face. Strands of black hair fall in front of his empty-looking eyes, giving her a sense of déjà vu. He looks worn and lifeless as if he is a walking corpse.
"I expect that you have questions, but I am in no mood to answer them." Loki suddenly speaking makes Sif jump a little. He gives her a pointed look and rubs his jaw with a skeletal hand.
"I think I deserve an explanation of why I found you almost dead in the armory in the dead of night."
Loki swallows with an almost nervous look in his eyes. He weighs the damage that will happen if he tells Sif about him faking his death, about how he was under the control of the Chitauri's leader when he went to Midgard. He makes up his mind that he doesn't care. Loki proceeds to tell the warrior (in vague description) all about the last few years of his life. From the time when he was hanging from the Bifrost to when he had wandered down into the armory with the hole in his chest that was –is– simultaneously healing and killing him, he spills the story that nobody had ever heard before now.
When Loki finishes his story and licks his cracked and dry lips, Sif stops dabbing his forehead with the cloth and puts it into the bowl on the floor. She taps her fingers on her knee as she thinks about Loki's story.
His sudden laughter brings her back to reality. "I do suppose that I just broke my last statement about not answering any of your questions."
Sif just looks at him, still milling over what Loki had said about the Tesseract and the events that occurred on Svartalfheim.
(Died with honor.)
There are so many things she wants to say to him, so she finds one word that she can put all of her anger and sadness in: "Coward."
She is angry with Loki. Really angry. He refused to face his problems and instead tried to end his life which is what got him involved with the Chitauri and their leader (he will not tell her who their leader was; he completely avoids it). He redeemed himself when he stopped Kurse, but he made Thor think he was dead for a second time and now he has the guts to show up in Asgard as if nothing had ever happened.
Sif expects Loki to sneer, to hiss some menacing remark, but he only lets out another bark of laughter.
"I am anything but." His smirk is dangerous. "Amuse me: tell me why you think I am one."
"Maybe it's because you wanted to take your own life rather than face your problems. Or perhaps it's because you made Thor believe that you died twice, the second time in his arms."
Loki's throat moves as he swallows.
"Honestly, Loki, I think that Death would great you as an old friend by now." The look that Loki gives Sif makes her immediately regret her last statement. She tries to back pedal, desperately searching her mind for something else to say but Loki beat her to it, laughing again. This time it turns her blood to ice.
"Have you now?"
"I…" Sif starts, but the words quickly die on her tongue when she sees Loki's eyes darken dangerously.
With the speed of a snake he is suddenly out of his seat and is standing behind her, his mouth hovering close to her ear so that when he hisses, it sends shivers down her spine. "Do not speak to me of Death. You have not the faintest idea what she is like."
Loki moves so that he is standing in front of Sif, a malicious smile displayed on his lips. He locks eyes with her. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, and it is this quietness that terrifies Sif because it is the times that Loki is quiet that he does the most damage.
"I have been a slave to her lover who forced me to be at the mercy of her more times than I can count. At the end of every day, I was brought into her presence and I will never forget the feeling of her touch: a burning, freezing sensation. But it was her skeletal hand that I craved to hold at the end of every day, for I begged like a child for him to let me go, let her take me wherever she pleased because anywhere was better than where I was. There was not an hour that passed that I was not ripped apart, dissected like an animal until I was gasping on the ground. Words cannot describe the agony I felt when I took a breath because my lungs were crushed and my heart was torn to shreds. And they would make me swallow the blood so that I could know that I was still just barely alive. When Death would hold out her hand to me, I would crawl to her and grasp it with no more strength than a dying man, but he would pull me away from her and start the process all over again. Do not tell me that you have screamed for mercy so much that your throat bled and your voice was no more. Do not tell me that you have seen Death in all of her glory and have not been afraid. Do not tell me that you know what dying feels like because you do not."
Sif lets her eyes drop from his. She cannot stand to look into the green fires of sadness and rage and pain. Never had she actually stopped to think about the possibility that Loki had not willingly teamed up with the Chitauri and their leader after he had fallen through the wormhole. Her gaze slowly climbs its way back up his body; over his long legs; his shaking, green-tunic covered chest and abdomen; and finally back to his face. He is sickly pale, grey in a way as if the life has been sucked out of him. Dark circles give the illusion that his eyes are sinking into his head, and his high cheekbones cast shadows down his face, making him look skinny, so, so, skinny.
(-with no more strength than a dying man-)
Perhaps that is exactly what Loki is: a dying man. Perhaps he has been slowly decaying on the inside since he found out of his true heritage. Perhaps he is a lost cause, unable to feel any emotion that relates to happiness or love. Or perhaps Sif is too blind to see how desperately he wants to be loved.
A sad smile appears on her lips. "And yet even in the end, people of all races are filled with ignorance that could either save them or condemn them." It is the closest thing to a confession of fault as she will give.
Loki nods wearily as if his sudden outburst has tired him. He walks over to the bed and sits down at the corner of it pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. "I thank you for being concerned about my welfare, warrior, but I am in no more need of your assistance," he says, pulling his hands away from his face and crawling to the head of the bed. There is something else he wants to say, something rude, but he is too tired to say it.
(Not that I ever needed your assistance in the first place.)
The fur covers block his body from Sif's view, seeing as he pulls them all of the way up to his chin. "You may stay if you wish," he ends the conversation dismissively.
Sif stands at the foot of the bed and just watches Loki for a few minutes. Watches him breath. Watches how the slight rise and fall of his shoulder as he breaths is labored, each inhale an obvious struggle. Any thoughts of leaving are dismissed when she hesitantly climbs onto the bottom of the bed. Loki does not stir, and she takes this as he has fallen into a light sleep. She, too, crawls into the empty side of the bed on the other side of Loki and pulls the furs up to her chin.
(Do not tell me you know what dying feels like-)
Staring at Loki's green tunic covered back is better than staring at his face because if Sif could see his face, she knows that she might mistake him for being a corpse. At least when she is staring at his back, she does not need to worry about seeing his ashen skin or watching his face contort with nightmares. Watching his fingers skim over the mattress, trying to find reassurance that he is not alone.
(-because you do not.)
You are not alone, Sif thinks. Not tonight. She wants to reach out and touch him. She wants to let him know that she is here and he is safe and he is loved in strange, complicated ways but he is still loved. But she doesn't. Instead she lets her eyes close, lets her grip slacken on the hilt of the dagger that she always sleeps with, and welcomes sleep.
…
The air is heavy with the sweet smell of rain and the sound of it hitting the leaves on the tree is hypnotizing. A light breeze blows over the grass, making it shudder slightly. Dark clouds roll over the sky, threatening thunder and lightning.
Sif is not in the mood for either. Rarely is there a rainstorm in Asgard that doesn't involve them (she teases Thor for that), so it's nice to have a few minutes of just rain.
She is sitting on a hill that is as tall as the trees. She can see the palace and the village that sits far below it from here. The raindrops land on her skin, rolling down her forehead and onto her legging covered knees. They cool her off even though she is not particularly hot.
Sif leans back so that she is lying on the raindrop covered grass and folds her hands over her stomach. She closes her eyes and lets out a sigh as she lets the breeze dance across her forehead, jaw, shoulder-
Sif awakens with a start, immediately sitting bolt right up with her dagger clutched in her hand. It takes her a few seconds to recognize her surroundings, and when she realizes where she is, she relaxes. The fire in the hearth blazes, but the room is still filled with an unmistakable chill. Whether it is the chill of winter or of tension, she does not know.
She throws her dagger at her feet and it lands with a soft thud against first layer of fur spread out across the bed. A slight dip of the feather-filled mattress makes her turn her head to the left only to set her eyes on a strange sight: Loki sitting on his haunches, poised on the edge of the bed, the fingertips of his one hand splayed out on the fur to keep his balance while the other hand is held tightly against his chest in a fist. His position reminds Sif of a cat who was caught in the act of trying to catch a bird.
Something about the way he is looking at her, the way he is positioned, makes a thought click into place in her head. "Were you...touching me?" she asks, trying to mask her curiosity with irritation.
Loki unclenches his fisted hand and waves his fingers before saying, "I was merely... I suppose I- yes." His statement ends abruptly, leaving the air heavy with unsaid lies. It is rare that Loki states the truth so frankly, so his sudden act of honesty catches Sif off guard. He sees her expression waver, sees through her façade of disgust, and can't help but let a smirk grace his features. The smug expression quickly fades, though, when he realizes that Sif wants and explanation of why he had dared to let his hand skim over her skin. He presses his lips together, trying to come up with a smart remark, but can think of none.
Sif watches Loki go through this strange progression of speechlessness. She resists the urge to smile at the bitter-sweet thought that even the one who they call Silvertongue can be at a loss of words.
An icy shiver goes through her spine when the revelation that Loki had been actually touching her hits home in her brain. The breeze in her dream had not been a breeze at all, but merely Loki's cool fingers skimming across what small amount of skin that was exposed on her. She can't help but let her own fingers glide over her forearm, and she pulls absentmindedly at the loose threads at the end of the sleeve of her tunic. Sif's pulse is racing furiously in her arm, making her clench her jaw angrily. Her racing pulse means that she had been enjoying Loki's touch. She holds back the urge to scoff at her own desperation for a man's touch. The last time she had been touched by a man was so long ago. It had been a comforting touch. Stupid. Sentimental.
(It's ok, Sif, Thor said as he wrapped his arms around Sif's shaking shoulders. Your father is in Valhalla, feasting with the mighty warriors of old. Shh, Shh, don't cry, don't cry...)
"I am sorry. I did not mean to hurt you in any way." Loki's quiet apology snaps Sif back to reality and she tilts her head, eager to hear what the Silvertongue has to say next. "It's just... I have not felt another's touch in so long. I was denied permission to see my mother when I returned to Asgard, and even when she would visit me in my cell she was no more than a hologram. The last time I saw her- I said awful things. And when I tried to hold her hand she...disappeared. I vowed that the next time I saw her I would apologize, I would tell her how much I loved her but then she-" Loki cannot even finish his sentence, but he doesn't need to. But then she died.
His gaze is fixed on a point far away, his mind in a world that only he knows exists. Sif studies Loki's blank expression. She thinks about how she would recently catch Odin do the same thing when he thought nobody was looking. She had mistaken his deep stares for weariness from old age. What a fool she has been. As she looks upon Loki now, she thinks that maybe when he stares it is because he has lost his balance on his poorly constructed bridge of sanity and is falling down into the deep dark abyss that is his insanity. Or perhaps he is just crazy.
A wave of pity suddenly overcomes Sif, and before she knows what she is doing, she has her arms wrapped around Loki's shoulders. The hug is awkward because of the strange angle that Loki is sitting at. Sif can feel Loki tense at the sudden show of affection, and even though her mind protests to the strange action that she has taken, she squeezes her arms tighter.
She is surprised when she finds herself suddenly enveloped by Loki's long arms. He seems to have collapsed onto his knees and has his head buried in the nape of her neck. His body shakes like a dying leaf being thrown around in the breeze. Sif knows he is trying to hold back tears and rubs soothing circles on his back. She says nothing because she is afraid that if she did then the perfect silence around them would crack and fall apart, cutting Loki's heart in the process and damaging it forever. So she decides to sit here on the fur covered bed in front of the dancing flames of fire in silence, continuously drawing patterns on Loki's back in an attempt to sooth him.
(There was a story she had heard once-)
The eerie chill in the air was gone, replaced by something warm and sweet-smelling.
(-of a bird whose companion had been struck by an arrow.)
Loki's body stops shaking and he lets out a breath of hot air accompanied by a few gasps and Sif knows that he is crying.
(And the bird sat with its dying friend and cried out to the heavens.)
She pulls Loki away from her shoulder so that he is looking her in the eyes. He quickly wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and presses his lips together in a hard line. He tries to pull out of Sif's grasp but she only tightens her grip. "Why must you insist on being so cold? Stop turning a blind eye on the ones who love you, Loki. It is not what Frigga would have wanted you to do."
Loki's composure shatters and his hands fly up to her face. For a while he just holds her there, tears falling off of his cheekbones and onto his trouser-clad knees, completely missing his hollow cheeks that seem to have been swallowed up by the rest of his face. His stares at Sif, green eyes wide with sadness and guilt. Guilt.
"Loki, you fool," Sif says, quietly. "You fool, you fool. It was not your fault. It was not your fault."
"I'm a fool," Loki says, slightly breathless as a sense of déjà vu overcomes him. "I'm a fool."
(Even when the bird realized that its companion was dead, it still sat with the body as if that would bring comfort to the dead animal.)
Sif eases Loki back so that he is lying on the bed and hesitantly rests her head on his chest, right above where his heart is. He flinches as a slight pang of pain runs through his chest but relaxes when it goes away. They both lay awake for a while just listening to the comforting sound of the other's breathing and the crackling of the fire.
The air is warm when they both finally fall asleep, not as lovers but as friends seeking the comfort of each other. The worries of their world can wait until when the sun rises, for now is a time of utter bliss.
(And as Sif drifts off to sleep, she thinks that maybe she and Loki are not all that different from the birds in the story. Perhaps they too are just trying to provide each other some sort of consolation as each of them dies in ways that seem so different but are really exactly alike.)